WASHINGTON  At a recent Senate hearing, when Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy was arguing against cameras in the courtroom, he referred to the court's peculiar customs.

It was a little-noticed remark that spoke volumes about the institution.

"We have a language," Kennedy said, "and ethic and etiquette, a formality, a tradition that's different than the political branches; not better, not worse, but different."

Is it ever.

In many ways, the justices, who return to the bench today after a two-week recess, live in a bygone era: one of elevator operators, ceramic spittoons, white quill pens and government lawyers in elegant gray morning coats.

"When my clients come into the room," says Washington lawyer Beth Brinkmann, a former assistant U.S. solicitor general, "they are impressed with the trappings: the velvet curtains, the engravings, all the history in the chamber. You just feel transported."

It's rare for lawyers to have the opportunity to argue at the court of last resort, which hears about 70 cases a year. It's also rare that visitors to the nation's capital have a chance to hear oral arguments, which are held six days each month.

The cases are aired in an atmosphere of elaborate ritual, tradition and courtesy. Spontaneity is so foreign that when then-chief justice William Rehnquist added four gold stripes to the sleeves of his black robe in 1995, it made national news.

With its hushed-voice, starched-collar ways, the court contrasts with the hustle and bustle of the halls of Congress across the street.

Business is not done with an electronic "send" button. Each of the nine justices has a messenger who delivers draft opinions and personal notes to the other chambers.

Sit up straight!

During oral arguments, lawyers sit in a special section, inevitably all in dark business suits and typically with knees together and hands clasped on lap. If a lawyer drapes an arm over a chair or sprawls casually into a nearby empty seat, a court police officer taps him or her on the shoulder to make sure the lawyer straightens up.

Next to the justices' nine high-back, black-leather chairs are green ceramic spittoons — used these days as waste baskets. As a memento for the lawyers who argue before the court, white quill pens are placed at their table.

The special language of the high court is evident from the start.

When the justices process into the courtroom (in set order of seniority), no one calls out, "All rise," as happens at trial. Instead a marshal intones, "Oyez, oyez, oyez! … God save the United States and this honorable court."

By custom, the first thing a lawyer at the lectern to argue a case must say is "Mr. Chief Justice, and may it please the court." When Chief Justice John Roberts was an advocate, he would write that phrase at the top of his legal pad, in case he suddenly drew a blank.

"There is nothing like the formality, and even the rigidity, of the process," says Washington lawyer Laurence E. Gold. "When you step up there (to the lectern), you know you have the assigned time of 30 minutes and not a second more. There's no spontaneity. You don't want to breach any of the unwritten rules of place, whatever they are."

The modern world

In this decidedly old-fashioned setting of no cameras, no tape recorders and no cellphones, the justices regularly face cutting-edge issues.

To get up to speed, they rely on briefs filed by the parties to a case, and they have their own way of digesting newfangled concepts.

In a complicated dispute this term over rules for when the modification of an invention can win a patent, Justice Stephen Breyer complained that the test may be flawed and offered his own possibly patent-worthy idea: "I have a sensor on my garage door at the lower hinge for when the car is coming in and out, and the raccoons are eating it. So I think of the brainstorm of putting (the sensor) on the upper hinge."

"How can I get a patent?" he asked, suggesting that the idea might not qualify but that maybe it should.

A few months later, when the justices were hearing a dispute over whether sending a master version of software overseas for copying can violate U.S. patent law, the justices easily waded into the modern jargon of source codes.

At one point, Justice Antonin Scalia did reach back to the legend of the great Persian queen storyteller as he referred to the "golden," or master version disk at the core of the case.

"I hope we can continue calling it the 'golden disk.' It has a certain Scheherazade quality that really adds a lot of interest to this case," Scalia remarked.

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U.S. Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy testifies on Capitol Hill March 8, in Washington, D.C. Kennedy pointed out the court's peculiar customs at a recent Senate hearing. With its hushed-voice, starched-collar ways, the court contrasts with the hustle and bustle of the halls of Congress across the street.

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